


Stuck

by blacktail_chorus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Freeform, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach, Sherlock is a Brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktail_chorus/pseuds/blacktail_chorus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A "disability" fic without an actual disability (unless you count Sherlock's insatiable curiosity and terminal pigheadedness as handicaps).</p><p>Sherlock is fascinated upon encountering an ordinary blind man navigating a busy street and decides to make himself the subject of a new experiment. That's right: he glues his eyelids shut and John has to deal with the unintended consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am usually a writer of S/J friendship fics, but one scene in what would eventually become this work popped into my head, demanded to be written, and generally dragged me along for the ride. (Must be all the S/J romance I read!) Relatedly, John is a cheeky bugger and never does what I want him to, but always ends up doing what needs to be done in the end.

**Wednesday**

They were leaving Lestrade's office after successfully closing another case when Sherlock saw it. Or rather, saw _him_ \--a young man with slicked back hair, a smart sportcoat, mirrored sunglasses and a long, white cane. He was walking steadily down the street, using one hand to sweep the cane's tip in a small arc before him. In his other hand he appeared to be holding a latte.

The man approached the nearby intersection and stopped at the kerb. He waited until the traffic began to move in his direction, then stepped nimbly into the crosswalk and continued on. Upon reaching the other side of the street, he paused to sip his latte, then moved forward once again.

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, enraptured by the man's movement. It took John a few steps before he realized his friend was caught in the grip of something new. He'd missed seeing the object of Sherlock's fascination entirely.

"Did you see that?" Sherlock asked, grabbing John's arm as John turned to rejoin him.

"See what?"

"That man! He's blind--the cane, obvious--but did you see how he walked down the street? How he navigated that crossing, that traffic?"

"No... though I suspect he did all right, if he's not here anymore." John furrowed his brow, and wondered if his face was one day going to stick that way.

"Indeed..."

No further commentary was forthcoming, apparently. After one final narrowing of the eyes, Sherlock strode forward once more. John shook his head and carried on beside him.

\---

**Thursday**

The day already seemed far too long to John by the time he made it home from his shift at the surgery. Sherlock had actually been asleep--or at least, silent and unmoving in his bedroom--when John had left in the morning, so he'd had no clues as to his flatmate's plans for the day. He took a breath and ascended the stairs to discover what his evening had in store.

He opened the door to find Sherlock sitting in his chair with his eyes closed. Rather than the post-case dressing-gown-and-sulk John had half been expecting, Sherlock was wearing a trim suit and a focused expression.

"Hello, John," he intoned.

"Hello...." John returned warily, unused to such a banal greeting. He remained near to the door.

"Judging from your sigh at the bottom of the stairway and the determined nature of your climbing the steps, I believe you had a trying day at the surgery," Sherlock continued.

"Too many patients, not enough time," John agreed. He decided Sherlock was simply attempting pleasantries and carried on with removing his coat and arranging his things.

"There was vomit?"

John glanced down at his shoes. "Yeah, didn't grab the basin in time. Cleaned it off but I guess you can still smell it a bit, sorry. I'll probably toss these."

"Mm."

"And how was your day, then?" John ventured as he headed towards the kitchen (and more importantly, the kettle).

"I'll take a cup too, thanks," Sherlock remarked, ignoring John's question.

"Git," John muttered good-naturedly as he ran the tap. There was no shooting, shouting, or sullenness: the evening was shaping up to be perfectly fine after all.

He puttered about the kitchen while the kettle came to a boil and then set about preparing the tea. He set himself up with a newspaper at the kitchen table.

"Tea's ready," he called as he settled into his seat.

To his surprise, he heard Sherlock rise from his chair almost immediately. He definitely hadn't expected that to work. Odd, though--his steps were uneven, fast and slow. The steps came to a stop in the vicinity of the kitchen table. John looked up from his paper.

"What?" he asked. Sherlock was hovering--there was no other word for it--and what's more, his eyes remained closed.

"If you could pass me the tea," Sherlock said.

"It's... it's right there. You're right here."

"I could seek it out but I imagine you'd rather I not knock everything about while doing so."

John paused. Something clicked. "What did you do," he asked flatly.

"I glued my eyelids shut," Sherlock responded.

"Come again?"

"You know I hate repeating myself."

"I'm sorry, it sounded like you just said that you glued your _eyelids_ shut."

"That is what I said, yes."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his own eyelids together. He let his paper fall to the tabletop. "Why did you do that?"

A grin curled around Sherlock's lips. " _Research_ ," he replied. "The man on the street yesterday. I'd never seen a blind person move with such skill and autonomy. It made me aware that I'd never even considered, nevermind studied, the details particular to a blind person's life. I've never given a thought to whether certain behaviors or trace evidence might mean that a criminal was _blind_. I never imagined that a criminal could be blind in the first place."

"So now you're, what, walking a mile in his shoes until you accidentally fall down the stairs and break your neck?"

"Hardly," Sherlock sniffed.

John waited for the incredulity, the irritation, the frustration to bubble up inside his chest at the revelation of Sherlock's latest endeavor, but to his surprise they did not come. In their stead was a mix of weary acceptance and, perhaps, even, a little bit of amusement. "You couldn't just wear an eye mask?" he asked.

"Too tempting to remove it in difficult situations. This is much more authentic."

"Yeah, well, if you're expecting me to wait on you while you're being authentic, you have another thing coming." John picked up his paper once again.

"The tea, John," Sherlock reminded him.

John sighed. He picked up the cup and shoved it into Sherlock's outstretched hand, then retreated back into the paper...

...only to snap his head up again upon hearing a series of thuds and shattering china coming from the next room.

"Damn!"


	2. Chapter 2

John had stopped the flow of blood from a slice on Sherlock's left palm, and had begun to check him over for other scrapes or wounds. Sherlock was sitting as haughtily as he could while seated on a toilet lid in a tiny bathroom. He hadn't said anything since John had helped him to his feet.

"So how long is this experiment to last?" John asked drily, breaking the silence.

"One to four days."

"And why the range?" Satisfied there were no other obvious signs of injury, John took a step back and folded his arms across his chest.

"That is how long superglue will persist on human skin before releasing itself naturally."

"Of course."

Another silence. Neither man made a move. John looked at Sherlock expectantly, while the consulting detective tried to pretend he actually wanted to stay in the bathroom rather than admit he was now nervous about walking round his own home.

John sighed. "It's not something you can pick up just like that, you know," he began. "I had a classmate in uni who was blind. She was phenomenal. Fantastic student, lived on her own, navigated the city as easily as you please. I hear she's a bloodthirsty lawyer now."

"Pity," Sherlock managed.

"Yes. Well. The point is, the only reason she could do all that was because she took lessons for years. How to use a long cane, how to organize everything, what cues to use to negotiate city streets... just because you have a gigantic brain doesn't mean you can work all that out overnight."

"Thank you for your _marvelous_ insights into my capabilities, doctor," Sherlock snapped back.

"Well, I suppose you won't be wanting my help, then," John returned calmly, turning to go.

A vicious parting shot was on the tip of Sherlock's tongue, but he caught himself in time and managed to hold it back. He swallowed audibly, feeling foolish and prickly.

"John," he finally called out, loudly enough to be heard in the kitchen (where he assumed John now was, based on his footsteps). "Thank you for bandaging my hand," he said stiffly.

There was no response at first. After a moment, the floor creaked and John reappeared in the hallway outside. "I suppose we'll have to get you sorted so you don't kill yourself while I'm at work tomorrow," he mused.

"That would be... good."

\---

They ordered takeaway and spent the remainder of the evening tidying the flat (John), memorizing navigable pathways around the furniture (Sherlock), and organizing critical objects so they could easily be found and used. John began to worry when he realized how many of Sherlock's usual distractions were unavailable to him without his sight: the microscope was useless, as was his computer (absent certain software), all his books, and even many of the functions on his mobile. Just what exactly was he planning on doing for the next one to four days? Listening in on the neighbors?

They ended the evening with an utterly forgettable episode of an utterly forgettable comedy. Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa while John sat in Sherlock's usual chair. After the fourth time John let out a chuckle for no reason Sherlock could discern, Sherlock broke in. "What? What is happening?" he asked.

"Oh, it's nothing," John dismissed him. "Just some physical comedy. You'd find it 'tedious,' " he said, mocking Sherlock's usual tone. Then, of course, some antic onscreen made him laugh again.

In that moment, nothing could have been further from the truth. He wanted desperately to know what was going on. To be watching the slapstick with John (even though his version of "watching" would have meant "spouting insults at every opportunity"). He'd always thought he'd hated John's preferred programmes but he suddenly realized he actually loved to hate them because it meant he shared them with his friend.

The show came to an end and John turned the television off. "Need anything before I head up?" he asked solicitously.

"No, thank you," Sherlock replied. He remained draped across the sofa and gave no indication that he intended to move. He could almost hear John's eyebrows as they raced up his forehead, surprised by the polite turn of phrase. 

"I'll just turn the lights out, then," John remarked. " 'Night."

"Goodnight."

John switched off the lights and left Sherlock lying alone in the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

**Friday**

Despite John's assumptions to the contrary, Sherlock actually had done some preparation before cutting himself off from one of his major senses for an indefinite period of time. This included the acquisition of a long broom handle and white paint to make a facsimile of a long cane.

Part one of his experiment had gone well last night, absent the stumble. He had successfully deduced John's mood and the events of his day through hearing and smell alone. Now it was time for part two: observing and deducing strangers. For this, Sherlock would have to leave the flat.

He stayed quietly in his room until he heard John go out. He moved swiftly to his wardrobe and selected a suit for the day (bless his sock index once more). Not bothering with breakfast, he grabbed his makeshift cane and began to practice with it around the flat. He determined that he would need to be able to detect obstacles, uneven ground, and steps both up and down in order to navigate the streets, so he set to work "finding" those features in the flat. This proved to be more challenging than he'd imagined it would be; controlling the motion of the cane and reacting appropriately to the input he received took quite a lot of concentration. Still, if he moved slowly enough he thought it wouldn't be much of a problem.

After all, he would hardly have trouble finding his way. His mental map of London was unparalleled; a trip to the park should really be... well... a walk in the park.

He swept up his coat and keys and made his way confidently down to the ground floor. He strode down the hallway, opened the front door, and stopped. Though his eyes were closed, he could still sense light and dark through the lids. Sunlight played across his face, pressing a hint of warmth into his cheeks. Must be a blue sky today, then, or at least clear for the moment.

The expected traffic noises filtered by. Smells, too: petrol, obviously, and perhaps some burning oil? Or some other kind of... fluid? Sherlock made a mental note to improve his identification skills for auto-related scents. Speedy's was giving off _especially_ greasy fumes today. He remained in the doorway, letting the world wash over him before trying to pick out the details.

Naturally, he began to listen for people. Some had loud shoes announcing their presence with every click and stomp, while others in trainers or flats could only be located by the subtle rustling of clothing. A group in conversation was the easiest to locate, though it was difficult to tell how many were walking by. A quiet walker might be obscured by a loud voice, for instance. Sorting out the confounding variables was going to take all day! Sherlock grinned inwardly in excitement.

He soon felt ready to make his way onto the pavement. Regent's Park was only a few blocks away, and there were enough pedestrians passing by he felt reasonably certain he could keep up with the crowd to avoid cars when crossing streets. Allowing himself one fortifying breath, he turned and began to make his way.

\---

John looked at his list; nearly through the scheduled patients for the day, thank god. He had just finished a note and was about to buzz for the next appointment when he heard his mobile ring in his jacket on the chair.

Puzzled, he turned to retrieve it. His screen flashed the name SHERLOCK. John hesitated, wondering whether the man was simply calling because he couldn't bother him via text on a touchscreen phone. Then he remembered Sherlock's tumble the night before.

"Hello?" he answered. "Are you all right?"

"I'm... lost," came the reply without preamble.

"Does that mean you've left the flat?" John was incredulous.

"Quite the deduction, John."

"Where are you?"

He thought Sherlock was suppressing a scoff. "Regents Park. I need you to come find me. Please."

The final "please" stopped John from launching into a well-deserved (he thought) ribbing. Sherlock's voice was so... small.

"Are you hurt?" he asked instead.

"No."

"Are you in danger?"

"I don't believe so."

"Is it raining?"

"What? No--"

"Okay, Sherlock, I will come find you, but I've got two more patients I have to see first. I can be there in a hour but I can't just skive off. Do you want me to phone Molly or Greg to see if they can get there sooner?" He didn't even bother suggesting Mycroft.

"No," Sherlock said forcefully.

"Alright. Just set yourself up and I'll be there soon. It's going to be fine. Deduce some joggers to pass the time?"

There was no response.

"Sherlock?"

"Be here soon," was all he would say.


	4. Chapter 4

Forty-five minutes later John was on the path Sherlock usually took through Regents Park, scanning side to side to look for the detective. He'd called Sherlock to get his best location estimate while en route.

Surprisingly, he heard the detective before he saw him. The strident tones of a deduction in progress reached his ears from around a bend in the path. Rounding the corner, he saw Sherlock gesticulating at a police officer who had what could only be described as a constipated expression upon his dull face. The pair was standing in the grass well off the path. John quickened his step and called out to announce his arrival.

"John!" Sherlock wheeled around at the sound of his voice and rapidly honed in on the sound of John's footsteps in the grass. "As you can see, officer," he called back over his shoulder, "I have no need of assistance. That _will_ be all."

"Hold it," John warned. "What the hell is going on here?" He caught the officer's eye but it was (of course) Sherlock who answered.

"He was passing by and stopped to see if I was in need of any help. As you have finally deigned to join me, it is obvious that I do not."

"Then what were you deducing just then?"

"I--"

"Deducing?" the officer broke in. "Is that what you call it? Wild speculation, more like."

"What's that?" John asked.

"I found 'im sitting in the grass, muttering something, and stopped to ask if he needed anything, like he says. His cane was all the way over there"--he gestured with the white... broom handle?... in his hand--"so I picked it up to give it back. Then he started going on about this man who attacked him, only he didn't just say it was a man. He said--"

"It was a man at least 170 centimeters tall, heavy smoker, an office worker who grew up in Yorkshire but moved to London as a young man. Hard to tell his age because of the voice damage from the smoking but I'd guess about 40 to 45." Sherlock couldn't stand to let the officer fumble through retelling his observations.

"Hang on, you were _attacked_? Why the hell didn't you say so on the phone?" John demanded.

"You only asked if I was hurt," Sherlock reminded him.

John's deadly glare was entirely lost on Sherlock in his current state. Nevertheless, Sherlock seemed to realize he should elaborate.

"I was walking along the path when I encountered an unfamiliar obstacle--some sort of glass and metal wall, or booth? As I paused to try to navigate around it, this man grabbed my arm and began to drag me out into the grass. I was startled and disoriented so I did not retaliate immediately. By the time I was able to mount a defence, we'd made it out here to no-man's land. I was turned about in the scuffle and dropped my cane. Then I called you," he finished primly.

"But he didn't harm you? Did he say anything to you? Take anything?" John pressed further.

"He yelled, 'come on,' just as he grabbed my arm, and he certainly had some colorful words to say when I hit him in the face."

With that information, John immediately relaxed and had to bite back a grin. "He wasn't attacking you, you know."

"What? What do you call forcefully dragging someone away other than assault?" Sherlock was indignant.

"He was trying to _help_ you. He saw you struggling with that obstacle--it's some bizarre new modern art installation, by the way--and thought he'd help by guiding you around it," John explained.

"What an idiotic idea!"

"No, really, it happened to my friend loads of times. Apparently there are lots of well-meaning idiots who think they know where you're going better than you do."

"Oh, for god's sake," Sherlock muttered.

"So there was no actual assault, then?" the police officer interjected. He still held the white cane awkwardly in front of him.

"Apparently not," Sherlock growled. "Though you should still tell your wife to switch back to your old laundry detergent; the itching will stop. My cane, please." He held out his hand.

After a dubious look, the officer placed the cane back in Sherlock's hand before beating a hasty retreat. John watched him go, then turned to face Sherlock.

"Home?" he asked. Although Sherlock appeared to be in top mental form, the tightness around his lips and the stiffness of his posture revealed the stress he had experienced from what must have seemed a harrowing ordeal. John felt a crushing sense of guilt at having made him wait so long before finding him. 

"Yes," said Sherlock, perhaps a bit more forcefully than he'd intended. He raised his right hand and bumped into John's torso, then felt his way to John's left elbow and grasped it tightly. "Now."

"Straightaway," John promised. He led the way back to Baker Street with his flatmate on his arm and a tight, twisted feeling in his heart.


	5. Chapter 5

**Friday night**

"I need to touch your face."

Sherlock sat curled in the corner of the sofa. At the sound of his demand, John popped his head out of the kitchen.

"Excuse me?"

"Your face. Data. That is the whole point of this exercise. How else can I learn how the blind gather data about their world?"

"That's not... that's not something you just do to anyone, you know." John walked further into the room and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"But surely it happens. I would do it."

"With your family, yes, or those you're... close to," John hazarded.

"Then I don't see why you're hesitating."

"I'm not--no, fine. Fine. Just, I'm in the middle of making dinner, so, you know, make it quick." John huffed and snapped a short nod that, of course, Sherlock couldn't see.

He strode over to the sofa and sat down. Upon feeling the dip of the cushions, Sherlock turned towards him with hands outstretched. John quickly caught his wrists.

"Don't--let me. You'll stab my eyes."

"Mm," Sherlock, acquiesced. His face was turned towards John but tilted down and slightly away, his features placid and demeanor unrushed.

Slowly, John guided Sherlock's hands to his cheeks. He closed his own eyes (for protection) and dropped his hands to his lap.

Sherlock began by gently probing with his first two fingers and thumbs. John felt featherlight touches from each pad as each finger would press, then release, then shift slightly and press again. Sherlock traced his cheekbones first, then dropped to his jaw and followed that back to the hollow under each ear. John's eyes popped open as Sherlock grasped his ears, startled at... what? Sherlock had moved on, now following his hairline up and around.

John closed his eyes again as Sherlock worked down his forehead to find his brows, then the tops of his orbital sockets. Now the bridge of the nose, now the nostrils, now the philtrum and upper lip. The sensation was oddly soothing. When Sherlock finally reached his chin, John opened his eyes again, preparing to go.

Sherlock was frowning. He did not drop his hands. Rather, he grabbed John's chin in his right hand and shifted in his own seat, then began the process again.

This time, rather than pressing, Sherlock was tracing; he slid his fingers along John's cheekbones and jaw to feel the contours between points. John couldn't suppress the shiver that Sherlock triggered when he reached the sides of his neck. But Sherlock didn't appear to notice; he did not pause his roving fingers but rather sent them skimming the surface of John's brow ridge and the folds around his eyes. 

John was focusing quite intently on maintaining even, steady breaths as his skin began to tingle and his head filled with helium. Unconsciously, he licked his lips. He was completing the swipe when his tongue unexpectedly hit Sherlock's right forefinger. Sherlock hesitated only a fraction of a second before continuing as before. John felt his face grow warm. He took a breath and began to say, "sorry," but a _shush_ from Sherlock made the word die in his throat.

Then things changed. Sherlock added more pressure to his touch, and grasped with his whole hand rather than his fingertips. He cradled John's cheek in what could only be described as a caress, and moved his thumb in what must be called a gentle stroke.

John inhaled sharply and quickly grabbed Sherlock's wrists. "Stop," he whispered. "That... that isn't what friends do, Sherlock."

Fingers recoiled into fists. John let go.

"I'm... sorry," Sherlock said after a beat.

"No, you don't... Just had to make sure you weren't doing something you didn't mean to do, that's all."

Sherlock was silent in the wake of John's convoluted statement. Neither man moved away.

"Will you help me wash the glue out of my eyes?" Sherlock said finally. "I can feel it beginning to peel off."

"Ah, yes," John replied quickly. He stood and headed towards the bathroom, assuming Sherlock would follow. As he walked, he slowly exhaled a breath he had not meant to be holding.

Superglue incidents were hardly uncommon in the life of a GP. John's movements were deft and assured as he regained control of the situation. He had Sherlock bend his head over the basin and ran a steady stream of warm water across his eyes. John cupped his hands under Sherlock's cheek to support his head, and used his thumbs to gently peel the eyelids apart. The glue was indeed loose and it was the work of only a few moments to separate them. John tilted Sherlock's head in the other direction and repeated the procedure. He turned the tap off and pressed a towel into Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock patted the towel over his face and straightened, standing upright. After a moment he lowered the towel and finally opened his eyes.

The lids were red and slightly inflamed, and his eyelashes were still matted from flecks of glue. He blinked rapidly in the harsh light before turning to fix his gaze directly on John. Those strange, pale eyes were as bright and piercing as ever. John felt his heart leap into his throat. He was mesmerized.

Sherlock let the towel fall into the basin. He regarded John for a long moment, studying his face and then tracking up and down. Then without warning, Sherlock suddenly moved forward and raised his hands to grasp John's face once again.

"And what if I didn't mean for this to be something that friends do?" he said roughly.

John couldn't answer; all the moisture in his mouth had evaporated and he felt as though his teeth were covered in cotton wool. A faint buzzing filled his ears and his steady breathing had deteriorated into rapid, short sips of air. He stood rooted to the spot.

Sherlock's voice broke through the buzz. "May I kiss you?" he asked, softly.

John nodded.

Sherlock leaned in smoothly and pressed his lips to John's. The kiss was warm and dry and over much too soon. Before Sherlock could pull away, however, John grabbed his waist to keep him close and reached up to kiss him back. He was firm but did not push further. The initial flare of energy relaxed into a low, resonant hum. A smile turned up the corners of John's mouth as he broke off for breath.

"I thought you didn't like things... like that," he said. His voice sounded strange and unmodulated to his ears.

"I thought you weren't gay," Sherlock deadpanned in return.

John cracked first, letting a tittering giggle slip though his teeth that caused Sherlock to bark out a laugh that further spurred John to almost cackle with delight.

"But then I... I felt your pulse," Sherlock explained as he caught his breath. He ghosted his fingers over John's carotid, the place where his touch had first made John shiver. "And I heard the change in your exhalations."

"And what was it that you deduced?" John prompted playfully.

"That I desperately wanted to do _this_."

He pulled John in and kissed him properly. John drank it in, thanking all his lucky stars for the madness and mayhem of the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally planned to have more of an ending, with more conversation and smooching, but oh god guys the PUNS. I could not write it without the most horrific puns. Discretion being the better part of valor, I leave you with this instead.


End file.
